Sacrifice
by Takigawa Aki
Summary: Time means nothing when you are immortal. But sometimes people can take you by surprise. -Not quite sure about genres...


Oya ~ KHRFest again. The deadline fast approaches! 8D

**Prompt: **Daemon Spade - ambitions; "how can we win when fools can be kings" (KHRFest)

**Sacrifice**

There was something he didn't like about this. No, there was nothing he did like. He was old, very old; time seemed to fly at times, others to crawl. That was its nature, the nature of human perception. Time was subject to one's mind, to how they perceived it, always. When he had to wait, it slowed.

He drew a slow breath, surrounded by trees. On all sides were their thick trunks, towering heavenwards like old behemoths set down to rest. Rest. That was tempting, as it always was. For three centuries he'd gone without it, and he was tired, not a tired that made him wish for sleep or a tired that made his eyes droop or his mind wander. It was a tiredness of his emotions, a little dulling in his passion, as if his soul was being worn down at the edges. Time was unkind. Sacrifices had to be made, though. For Giotto, who hated him but somehow still lived; he knew it. Giotto was alive, if not in the same way that Daemon was. Perhaps he only lived through his descendant, the decimo. But still he existed, and thus still the Mist would strive for him.

Happiness meant little. It was a fleeting thing, as many things were, as all emotions. Power may be chipped away, but with vigilance it would always be remembered. Strength could not be taken. If the Vongole were secure enough in their power, in their strength, in their unity, then they would not be overtaken. That was his goal. He could not provide happiness to Giotto, for that was a vain pursuit. But he could help to attain his goals and to keep the family powerful, even to add to its power. That was his gift to his boss, appreciated or not.

The leaves rustled gently as he stepped, the heels of his boots making no imprint on the dirt, as he no longer made marks on the earth. He had given that up along with the possibility of rest, of death, when he undertook this goal. His legacy was that of manipulation, of his influence on others. He himself was nothing without the people who did what he bade them, willing or not. That was the problem. It was what had to be the bone-numbing weariness that made his shoulders slump, where it had to originate. It was as if he was nothing but a disembodied voice to nudge people where he wanted. Unable to touch anything itself. He could do it no longer.

This was why he needed a host. A host would allow him to touch the real world once again. To feel the crunch of twigs beneath his feet or to hear the wind blowing in his ears. To have skin to touch, to be touched. He had appearance now but no shape. He was an illusion, nothing more than a ghost. That was all. But he could only do so much for the Vongole, for Giotto, like this. By accepting Mist ring, his successor had already dedicated himself to the family; it ought not to matter how he served as long as he did, and he would be far more useful as Daemon's host than not. But that was beside the point now.

Was Giotto cursing his name? It was likely. After all, he had known the entire time about Daemon's plan to strengthen their unity. It wasn't as if he had enjoyed hurting his boss, after all. It had to be done. The weak limbs had to be pruned for a tree to begin to flower. The diseased leaves must be plucked. That was how it worked. That was how power was kept, was attained.

It was a presence beside him that made him tilt his head, expression vaguely curious with the tiniest arch of his brow. A gust of wind shook leaves from their branches, sending them dancing to the ground, where they settled with soft sighs. The smell of autumn was something he missed, the touch of cool breezes. His hair was undisturbed by it.

"Mukuro," he purred softly. "To what do I owe the honour?"

The illusion in front of him was no better than he was but for the fact that it was anchored to a real body. Without the boy's host Daemon could not grasp Mukuro's real form, for this was the shallowest of illusions, without root but for in his mind, thousands of miles away in Vendice. He could not touch him or claim him as his own host. This was communication and nothing more.

The boy's gaze was steady despite his knowledge of what Daemon wanted. The illusion was unarmed but that mattered nothing. He simply hadn't bothered to imagine them in the image. "I know nothing of the man who wishes to take me as his host," he said after a moment of thought, the corners of his lips turning upwards in a sly smile. "Yet you seem to know everything of me."

"I know everything of the Vongola," he replied smoothly, returning the smile with one just as secretive. "You know my goal now: The ascent of the family to the height of the mafia. That is all."

Something unreadable flashed through Mukuro's eyes as he turned away, his hips swaying softly as he stepped away to lay an illusory hand on the bark of a tree trunk. "I often dream of my time when I did not have little Chrome as a host," he said suddenly. "When I could not feel with my skin or truthfully touch something but for the prison. That is what you are, isn't it? You're an illusion but without the body to return to."

Surprise sobered him. Daemon's smile faded into a careful look and he nodded slowly. "It is," he murmured.

"If the Vongola family reaches new heights then I will gain even more when I take Sawada Tsunayoshi as my host," Mukuro mused, without amusement or his private expressions. He seemed to be thinking deeply. "And so the rise of the Vongole is a goal I suppose that we both share, primo. Perhaps we can benefit from each other."

Though he was taken aback, Daemon gave no sign. He arched one eyebrow, waiting for the boy to continue. Hope was a foolish thing when Mukuro had given no indication that he was going to assent to being his host.

"This world is foolish," he muttered, still not facing the man behind him. "Look at the petty disputes around us, in the mafia, in the nations. Should the Vongole stand on morals they will be battered by stupidity and shallowness. Nobility is cursed and dignity is struck." He looked over his shoulder then, expression unreadable. "So how can we win, then, when fools are kings? What is the point of power without reason? I am punished for the deaths of the Estraneo, who tortured me and others and killed their own children, and the punishment is thought justified. I know why I want power, Daemon Spade. I want it for revenge. But you, you want the Vongola to rise—but why?"

For a long time there was silence as Daemon regarded his successor with a probing look, watching his expression, though it never seemed to change. Mukuro turned to face him but still his thoughts were alien. "There is someone who cares about it," he finally said. "Someone I would not let be disappointed."

"Hm."

Saying nothing, the boy stepped away again, this time down the overgrown path, his gaze following the traceries of branches high above. A bird darted away at his steps and high into the trees and the safety of the canopy. "So you would sacrifice everything for that person's happiness."

"No," Daemon corrected simply. "I would sacrifice everything for the attainment of their goals."

Mukuro turned, his brows furrowed for a moment. Then he nodded. "The world never changes," he murmured. "There is always something to drive someone. Be it revenge or caring, but always one of the two. Ambition is only a side effect." His lips pursed. "And there is always a struggle to attain it, and once it is attained then one may enjoy the satisfaction or wallow in the loss of their purpose. What will you do when the Vongola has reached the top?"

"I will make sure it stays there."

A soft chuckle escaped the boy's lips. "So be it." He was going hazy around the edges. "I will think on it, Daemon Spade. We might help each other."

"Yes," he murmured as the illusionist's form evaporated into the breeze. "We might."


End file.
